


Bird of Prey

by Morse_s Child (sherlockstummy)



Category: Midsomer Murders - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Food, Food Kink, Stomach Ache, Tears, joyce and tom are cuties
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-05
Updated: 2015-12-05
Packaged: 2018-05-05 01:13:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5355425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlockstummy/pseuds/Morse_s%20Child
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Like any good detective, Tom is easily lost to his work, so much so that he starts skipping meals. Joyce finds out he's skipped far too many.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bird of Prey

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, I have no idea what this is. My first foray into Midsomer Murders fanfic! I thought MM could do with more hungry detectives, thus this story was born! Enjoy!

Watching Tom Barnaby work is a lot like watching a hawk. He is careful, calculating, and graceful. He approaches murders with tact and a fair bit of pomp and circumstance too. Dark suits that slim his frame, even the occasional waistcoat, shows he is uptight and no-nonsense while on the job. His eyes can be kind when they need to be, movements fluid. But he can be just as wild, just as hungry, when intimidation is necessary. Standing at just 5’10’’, Tom cannot often tower above his suspects. But the broad shoulders of a true brawler show that he is no one to be trifled with.

Joyce loved her husband dearly. Tom was funny and kind and thoughtful, affectionate and protective. Just the kind of husband she dreamed of having when she was a little girl. Not to mention that he was an excellent father, if over-protective of his precious Cully, though, weren’t all fathers? Tom never did give Cully’s various boyfriends a kind look the first time; they were always conscious of being watched. 

In that way, he is very much like a bird of prey. Joyce even thought it was funny that Tom would raise up his head like a proud cockatiel when revealing the juiciest bit of information that would surely put the culprit’s head in the noose. 

Now Tom was also a man who could be callous and forgetful when working. Joyce always sought to be her husband’s constant, a safe harbor he could always return to. Life just outside of the various counties of Midsomer was far from a calm sea. Tom loved his job and would never want to do anything else with his time (Joyce liked to think that, while he husband had a healthy need to see justice done, he just really enjoyed the puzzle of a crime; in fact, he got restless if there were no crimes!), but being one small boat on a rough sea is difficult, no matter how sturdy you are. That was one of the factors that motivated Joyce to stop trying to mimic a famous chef and just start cooking meals her own way. The other was her husband’s stomach.

Men have to eat. It’s in their nature to adjust well to three meals a day and desire snacks in between. Women, Joyce thought, probably benefitted more from the “five small meals” regimen that was all the rage in dieting these days. Joyce herself ate like a bird, but had to eat frequently. She never had much of an appetite, but if she didn’t eat within a certain timeframe after becoming hungry, she was prone to fainting. Tom knew, and tried his best to keep a close eye. Joyce took good care of herself, though. Her eating habits were not a problem.

Her husband, on the other hand…

Tom tended to get lost in his work. A small but sturdy boat overwhelmed by rough waters, waves crashing in on both sides. That was what being a Causton CID Chief Inspector was like. Tom got lost in facts and theories, the names of suspects and victims forever clouding his mind until the solution had been found. Tom enjoyed the puzzle of the murder as much as he enjoyed doling out justice. And that often meant that he went hungry.  
Tom had been a policeman for years. Joyce had never really noticed how much, or how little, Tom ate during cases until one night.

It was the early hours of the morning, probably three AM or so. Joyce had gone to answer the call of nature and was returning to bed. Tom was on some case or other, but there had been no calls out in the night, so he was sleeping deeply. Usually, he slept on his side or on his stomach, but tonight, he was sprawled out on his back. Joyce took advantage of this (Tom was not usually one to cuddle) and snuggled into his side. Tom murmured happily in sleep and pulled her close. Joyce smiled to herself and settled herself on his chest to sleep. She was just dozing off again when she heard a strange sound. She made to sit up, but Tom’s grip was strong and she couldn’t move. She was about to try and wriggled out from under him when she heard it again…and realized its source.

Tom’s stomach was growling.

Joyce tilted her head upward, confused, to watch her husband’s face. She couldn’t see much, but as his stomach growled again, Tom groaned and shifted slightly, turning his head towards her. Joyce brushed her nose against his cheek affectionately and settled against him again. Come to think of it, Tom hadn’t eaten much at dinner at all. He’d sat down for a few bites, then was called out again. Joyce had kept his dinner warm for him in the oven for a while, but moved it to the fridge as the hours went on. By the time Tom had come home, she was in bed already. He’d obviously decided to catch a few hours’ kip instead of scavenging scraps.

Joyce did not want Tom going hungry. She felt absolutely retched whenever she went without a meal. She couldn’t even imagine how Tom felt.

______________________________________________________________________________________________________

Tom loved the adrenaline rush he got from being on a case. He loved every part of it, from routine inquiries all the way up to the culmination, be it chase or big reveal. He loved it, and he loved having a capable sergeant at his side to take care of anything he’d rather not waste his time on (such as phone records, or other such tiny details). He barely thought about passing time. It would be Troy asking after meals. (“Care to grab lunch, sir?”) Chippy sandwiches and greasy pub food did not appeal when there were murderers to be caught, crimes to be solved, victims to be avenged. Black coffee, no sugar, or Indian tea, no sugar, were all he ever required. At home, he rarely had the appetite or attention. Oh, certainly, if an entire day was spent in active pursuits; climbing fences, chasing gypsies, running after suspects (literally and figuratively), he’d find himself able to be tempted into a meal, especially if Joyce hadn’t put something exotic, like ostrich, on the menu. His wife’s adventurous attempts certainly made him curious about tastes, but it rarely ignited his appetite. And even if he’d sat down with hunger gnawing at the pit of his belly, the phone would ring with new developments, and dinner would have to wait.

Sometimes, he’d go off in the middle of supper with regret, stomach gnawing at its own lining, only to get busy and forget about it. Coming home, though, after the adrenaline wore off, sometimes for the moment, sometimes altogether, that was difficult. He’d get in, often in darkness, and smell the remains of a meal. His stomach would start to growl again, reminding him of what he’d missed.

More often than not, Tom would look at his watch, spare the empty, dark kitchen a forlorn glance, and go upstairs to bed. It was much better to be hungry than tired. Tom was not about to fool himself; hunger did not improve his performance, though it did not affect it negatively either. Being tired did. And if he was a little bit too harsh on the suspects, well, they deserved it for being a ruddy nuisance, didn’t they?

That all led to Tom going to bed hungry far more often than he meant to. It had become almost habitual, to only nibble on a case. It didn’t help if the only available food was far from substantial. And he was robust, healthy, hungry or not. Well, he had to be. Cully and Joyce were strong women in their own right, and he was not about to argue that, but even the strongest of women relied on something. For his two favorite ladies, Tom was an anchor. And he was more than proud to be one. So, he never really let on he was starving. It would only worry Joyce, and Cully, dear Cully, was as perceptive as he was, though she could never see through his acting.

It only became a problem if his stomach decided to be noisy at inopportune times, like during an autopsy, or while questioning a suspect. That’s when Tom straightened his back, squared his shoulders, and went in for the kill. Metaphorically speaking. If anyone heard his stomach, no one dared to mention it.

Over time, though, going hungry became difficult. Not eating nearly enough caused bad headaches and weight loss, not to mention dizziness upon standing. Hunger pangs attacked Tom in the night, and lazy Saturdays were spent dreaming of decent meals. Between cases, Tom cleaned his plates with vigor, but still felt painfully empty. Cases piling up with only a few days between them meant hunger piled up, too. Tom could barely stand it. He was snippy with suspects, snippy with Troy, reserved and distant at home. He knew Joyce was worried, sensed she knew something.

After a string of murders in Midsomer Parva, Tom and Joyce were having a quiet lunch in. Joyce had made a heavenly pasta dish, and Tom was on the verge of asking for seconds, and in doing so admit that he was far hungrier than the few hours between now and breakfast warranted when the doorbell sounded.

“I’ll get it,” Joyce said brightly, scampering off. Tom dug his fork into the pot and dug out a large bite. The headaches were coming, and he was already beginning to feel a bit unsteady on his feet. Troy was reporting a body, and Tom, weary, was hoping for a suicide.

Ah, but when do we ever get that lucky in Midsomer? Tom found himself able to devour a boiled egg when Troy requested a late lunch at a nearby pub.

A few days later and the case was finished. Famished, Tom drove home, eagerly awaiting dinner.

He crossed the threshold and was greeted by a miraculous scent. Tom removed his jacket, hissing and clutching at his stomach as a hunger pang shot painfully through it. Mouth watering, he called, “Ah, you’re a saint, Joyce!”

“It’s only steak and potatoes!” Joyce quipped.

“Ah, but to a hungry man, tis a feast!” Tom joked, entering the kitchen and bestowing a kiss on his wife’s cheek. “Thank you, love.”

Joyce returned his kiss. “Welcome home, Tom. Now, eat up, before you get called out again.”

“I am looking forward to a quiet night in spent with my wife,” Tom replied. But he did indeed sit obediently as Joyce served him. The aroma from his plate sang to him, sending a shiver of anticipation down his spine. He wet his lips. “Can I start?” He asked, turning to look over his shoulder at Joyce, plating her own portion.

“Yes!” Joyce insisted, giving him a look of fond impatience.

Tom began to eat, doing his best to go slowly and savor the taste, but everything was so very, very good, and his stomach was as desolate as a graveyard. Very soon, he found his plate cleared but belly far from satisfied.

Despite the gnawing hunger that begged him for more, Tom stretched with a hum he was trying to make sound content (his acting was falling apart at the seams). “That was very good, Joyce. Thank you.”

Joyce was finished with her plate as well and was just refilling their wine glasses. “You should have seconds, Tom,” she insisted in that firm way that she had, raising her head to look at him. “I’m sure you’re famished.”

Tom let out a weary, relieved breath. He was glad she knew; he was tired of lying to her. “I am. But how did you know?”

Joyce suddenly looked away, guilty. Tom could see in an instant that something had upset her. Hunger forgotten, he reached out to touch her, bring her closer. “Joyce?”

Joyce hid her profile in her blonde hair, one hand over her mouth. She gave a brief shake of her head, and in the quiet kitchen, Tom heard her stifle a sob. “I’m a horrible wife,” she moaned despairingly. “All this time…I never knew…”  
Tom leaned forward, tilting his had towards her. “Joyce, Joyce, it’s all right. I’m fine!” He smiled, eyes bright. “There’s nothing to worry about. You are a lovely wife, and I love you very much.”

Joyce turned towards him stiffly, her eyes brimming over with tears. Tom hated seeing Joyce like this; it made him feel like crying, too. “You were hungry.” She insisted tearfully. “I should have made you eat. Made you food you liked instead of trying to be…” She began to cry.

Tom pulled her chair towards him and gathered her clumsily into his lap, holding her against his chest and rocking gently. “Shh, shh,” he soothed, running his hand through her hair. “It’s all right. Everything’s fine.” He continued murmuring senseless comfort into her ear until she stopped crying. She pulled away awkwardly, trying to leave his lap, but he held her there, his thumbs tenderly wiping away the remainder of her tears. “I’m fine. Really, I mean it. It’s only hunger!” He smiled, tucking her hair behind her ears. “I just forgot for longer than I would have liked to, that’s all.” He cupped her cheek in his palm and tilted her chin up so he could kiss her properly. After they broke apart, he kept them face-to-face. “How did you find out?”

Joyce wrapped her arms loosely around his neck, averting her eyes. “A couple nights back. I, erm…I heard your stomach, and it occurred to me…”

“I do skip meals,” Tom admitted. “And with the counties being particularly vicious, I haven’t had a chance to catch up.”

Joyce’s eyes were back on him, her hand cupping his cheek. Tom tilted his head into her palm lovingly. Hunger was fading into weakness and lightheadedness, but he didn’t want her to know. “How awful it must feel. Poor Tom.”

The inspector closed his eyes for a long, tired moment. It did, honestly, feel awful. Hunger gnawing at him, keeping him awake at night, sudden attacks of pain upon smelling something tempting, the desire to sit still and do nothing or, worse yet, doze off at his desk, the headaches, the dizziness, and his growling stomach, which was worst of all. He sat back, opening his eyes, and Joyce gasped at how thin he looked.

“You have to stop.” She ordered. “I insist that you take time off, for the sake of your health.”

Tom was surprised, but far too tired to argue. “Okay. I’ll call the station in the morning.”

“Good.” Joyce smiled, cupping Tom’s cheek again. “Now, I know fasting does a number on the body, and I started you rather rich and heavy, but can you handle the rest of that?”

Tom pretended to consider her proposition. “Yes, I think I could.”

“Wonderful.” Joyce hopped off his lap and eagerly refilled his plate. “I’ve got rhubarb pie in the fridge.”

Tom beamed. “My favorite.”


End file.
